Her Hands
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Her hands were small, wrinkled
Covered in brown age spots
Encouraging me to keep trying
Even when I was losing
Her hand’s nails needed trimming
She was nearly ninety
And I had to trim them
So fearful of cutting her
Her hands were worn, tattered
By the many years of work
She toiled like no one I know of
Constantly going, on and on
Her hands grasped mine
Feeling thin skinned and old
While at the same time they felt
Full of a love I’d always known
Her hands had done so much for me
Held me when I cried, spanked my behind
Bandaged a boo-boo and wisely
Comforted my sleepless night with a touch
Her hands were filled with purpose
She worked and tried and assured us
That when time would come to an end for her
She had a friend named Jesus she’d go to
Her hands lay crossed across her breast
That evening when I saw her in her casket
Awaiting the burial that would leave me feeling
Like I would be missing her until I'd go with her
Copyright © Regina Mcintosh | Year Posted 2019
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